


An Afternoon With Uncle Beazley

by nonelvis



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6697543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helping Elizabeth in East Germany is going to take Gabriel, Claudia, enforced tourism, obligatory mockery ... and chocolate ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Afternoon With Uncle Beazley

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by a conversation with Vali about how Claudia would react on trips to various national museums, and relies heavily on my own memories of the National Museum of American History (as well as Uncle Beazley, located right next door) from the mid-1980s. If I got any of the details wrong -- well, 30-year-old memories aren't perfect; sorry about that, even though I tried to refresh my ancient brain with photos from Google Images.

“Hello,” the relay operator said with carefully rehearsed cheerfulness, “I’m calling from _The Montgomery Journal._ We’d like to offer you a new subscription for only two dollars a month.”

“Two dollars?” said Claudia.

“Yes, only two dollars.”

“That’s a heck of a bargain, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass.”

“Thank you very much for your time,” said the operator, concluding her script and ringing off.

Two p.m. at Uncle Beazley the triceratops. Whatever Gabriel had on his mind, it was important.

* * *

Even in the slight chill of an early March in Washington, DC, Uncle Beazley was literally crawling with children, all shrieking and squirming as they wriggled their way up his knotted legs onto his humped back or the choice spot nestled behind his neck frill. As landmarks went, he was less impressive than any of the State’s official phallic symbols or other monuments, but the worn spots on his fiberglass horns and ridges, no doubt weathered from years of tiny hands unable to resist petting him, suggested far more utility than any of the white marble edifices on the Mall.

“I trust you didn’t have any problems finding him,” Gabriel said. He’d appeared by her side silently, the way they were trained, as if he’d been teleported directly into place.

“Not at all. You’d think between all of this” – she waved at the vehicular chaos on the service road between the Mall and the museums, a solid mass of articulated Tourmobiles, surburban county school buses, dodgy food vendors and always, the oblivious tourists wandering into locals when they weren’t wandering into traffic – “you wouldn’t be able to hear the noise, but children do love their dinosaurs.”

“Come. I thought we’d visit your favorite museum while we talk.”

Claudia glared at him. “American History.”

“You know nothing brings you more joy than a few cutting words aimed at Archie Bunker’s chair.”

“Typical of this country, worshipping some old bigot.” She tugged on the ends of her head kerchief, tightening it against the cool air. “Fine. One hour. And I get five minutes to fantasize about setting that giant flag on fire.”

* * *

The atrium’s Foucault pendulum ticked off minutes and hours in red wooden pegs. Gabriel was right: virtually every part of this museum made Claudia’s skin itch and lips curl. Even so, she admired the inevitability of the pendulum. All it took was a twitch from a motor, and the weight would swing forever, inexorably knocking over peg after peg as time passed and the world spun in space.

She’d already sneered at the flag, but had backtracked to the dim light and hush of the atrium. Perhaps later, once Gabriel had finally come clean about what he wanted to discuss, she could go growl at that tattered armchair.

Instead he said, “Do you want some ice cream? There’s an old-fashioned parlor downstairs. You won’t believe the vanilla. It’s the real test of an ice cream, you know: how pure the flavor is.”

The pendulum skirted a peg. In a few minutes, another wooden cylinder would hit the floor. “You can stop buttering me up anytime, Gabriel. Why am I here?”

He exhaled through his nose; not quite a sigh, but close enough that Claudia knew she wouldn’t be happy with what he was about to say. She’d assumed as much when he’d suggested the museum – the best reason to pick a public place for a meeting, in addition to blending in with a crowd, was to minimize the chance of an emotional blowup. Gabriel was a consummate chess player; he’d planned this meeting carefully.

“Elizabeth and Paige are in Berlin. Philip arranged it because Elizabeth’s mother is –“

“Dying. Yes, I know.” Claudia’s voice tightened, taut as the pendulum cable. “They shouldn’t be there.”

“Philip and Elizabeth thought it would be a good way to get close to Paige. Finally let her meet her grandmother, learn a little about her heritage. We should be happy about that.” 

“It’s good that they’re getting closer to Paige. But do they have any idea how dangerous this is? Why am I even asking; of course they do, they just don’t care. They’re the most stubborn, childish –”

“I know.” A sigh this time, and slumped shoulders, noticeable on a man a head higher than Claudia. “He said they were careful, and that there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t know if I believe him, but I do need your help with something.”

Another arc. The peg teetered, rustled by the breeze of the pendulum’s passing.

“Philip needs us to find someone to bring Elizabeth’s grandmother over for the visit,” Gabriel continued. “I have some people I can call, but you have more. Between the two of us, we can handle this.”

“We shouldn’t have to in the first place. The nerve of those two.”

“It’s too late now, Claudia. Would it help if I told you I yelled at Philip?”

“Not really. I haven’t done it yet myself.” Another lazy swipe of the pendulum, and the peg was left twirling on the granite floor. “But I’ll make a few calls when we’re done here. Are we done here, Gabriel?”

“Claudia,” he said, voice low and gravelly, “you know very well we’re never done here until you’ve seen the statue.”

Just the mention of it left her arms shivering and fists clenched. “You’re buying me that ice cream after this.”

* * *

No matter what Marx had said, religion and politics were hopelessly intertwined. Even in the Motherland, an ostensibly secular country, they worshipped their statues of fallen gods: everywhere, Lenin; Stalin and his pushbroom mustache; the victorious warriors, men and women, swords in stainless-steel outstretched arms. The United States was no different, but there was something particularly grotesque about this oversized statue of Washington, radiant in the gleaming white marble the city was so fond of. He sat bare-chested in a toga, a literal Greco-Roman god passing judgment on all below, finger pointing to the heavens in a blatant reminder of the Founding Fathers’ metaphorical divinity. It was a wonder she’d never seen the American sheep kneeling before it and kissing its feet.

She waited until a knot of teenagers left the statue to hurtle down the escalator, knelt as if to adjust the zipper on her boot, and spat upon the pedestal.

Gabriel was waiting for her by the escalator, ready to escort her below. “Chocolate, not vanilla,” Claudia said. “With every bright pink cherry they’ve got. I don’t care if they cause cancer.”

“You’ll survive long enough to make the calls.”

“What a shame.” She stepped onto the moving staircase. “They can’t keep pushing us around like this.”

“I know. But we’ve both seen what happens when you tell them ‘no.’ You in particular.”

“It’ll take more than that to get rid of me, or of you.”

“Yes. But in the meantime …”

“In the meantime,” said Claudia, “there’s ice cream. And after that: the old bigot’s chair.”

“And after that –“

“– duty calls. We’ll keep the world turning until tomorrow, Gabriel.”

“We always do,” he said, and took her hand, and led her onwards.


End file.
